Morelli's Dead
by PTBvisiongrrl
Summary: Rating may change later. Janet Evanovich. When Steph gets stood up, Ranger is the one to tell her why and pick up the broken pieces.
1. Don't Get Out of the Car

I do not own any of these characters, although I would really like to meet up with Ranger in a dark room somewhere. I simply borrow and gently use them for my amusement.  
  
Chapter One  
  
Don't Get Out of the Car  
  
Morelli and I were in another semi-"off" phase in our relationship. Periodic sex, rare dates when we actually went out in public together, and lots of arguments and aggravation, coupled with serious flirting from Ranger, who knew the minute Morelli and I were on the outs AGAIN. Quite frankly, I had been surprised to get a call late last night from Morelli, asking me to meet him for dinner tonight. Having nothing better to do- caught up at work, clean house due to no social life, and avoiding my family- I agreed. Which is why I had been sitting at Pino's bar for the past hour, growing steadily angrier. I only stayed this long because of the interested looks I was getting from some of the guys at the bar.  
  
I was sipping my second VERY weak margarita and nursing a case of righteous fury at Morelli for standing me up, when I heard the first of the sirens and saw the blue and whites careen down Hamilton Avenue. A second car screamed past within a minute, and the third and fourth followed in seconds. The last time I had seen this many cop cars racing to one place had been when my Jeep blew up.  
  
Or was that the Porsche? With my car luck, it's become difficult to keep the individual doom of each of my ill-fated vehicles straight.  
  
Being the bad-ass bounty hunter- and stood up date- that I am, I sucked down one last mouthful of my drink, threw a twenty down on the bar, and headed out to see what the ruckus was about. Pino's being Pino's, about a half-dozen off-duty Trenton PD had already preceded me out the door. I knew that whatever Morelli had stood me up for probably had to do with the big to-do; he usually only missed dates for work related reasons these days. I was in no rush to get to the scene of whatever the crime was, because I knew that Morelli would be too busy to talk to me until the mess was cleared up, but I was curious. What was so important that he had forgotten about me?  
  
The Buick was waiting for me on the street. Big Blue, nearly indestructible, was once again mine. I had given up on ever having my own, new, fuel-efficient car for more than a few days. I revved the engine, did an illegal U-turn, and followed the crowd.  
  
I knew as soon as I got close that something very bad had happened. Given my past history- it seemed that every psychopath in the Burg fixated on me at one point in his sick career- "very bad" was a fairly common occurrence. At least this time, it wasn't my fault. One ambulance had taken off while I was weaving in and out of the traffic on Hamilton, recklessly speeding past me on its way to Saint Francis. A second ambulance was there, but it's lights flashed soundlessly and it didn't seem to be going anywhere. Someone dead, then, and another person injured.  
  
Cops, both uniformed and plain clothes, stood clustered together, talking in hurried, tense tones. The tenor of those conversations, given the anger in the officers' faces, was going to lead to something along the lines of "Yes, sir. The suspect fell down the stairs. Several times," whenever they brought the perp in. There was none of the gallows humor I usually observed at crime scenes, and everything seemed hushed.  
  
I eased the Buick into a spot near the intersection, only brushing the bumper of the silver Taurus in front of me. Practice was paying off; the bumper was barely scratched. The Buick, of course, was fine. I took a minute to inspect myself in the rear view mirror. I wanted to make sure that Morelli would regret standing me up as soon as he saw me in that little black dress and fuck me heels. My hair was presentable, for once, and had only taken a half-hour to perfect; my coal-black mascara and eyeliner had barely smudged. Maybe I should consider becoming a cosmetics counter girl like Morelli kept suggesting. Freshening up my hooker red lipstick, I turned to open my door and nearly screamed.  
  
I should have realized he was standing there from the hairs on my neck standing up, but I had been distracted with the make-up check. "You need to stop creeping up out of nowhere and scaring me. I almost wet myself."  
  
Ranger leaned on the Buick's powder blue door, briefly glancing down at my outfit, his face more expressionless than usual. "You're not dressed for a crime scene, Babe. Isn't there someplace else you should be?"  
  
I scowled back at him. The dress that he wouldn't let me out of the house in had barely registered on his radar. Something odd was going on. "I was some where else. Now I'm interested in here."  
  
"Go back to that some where else."  
  
I usually took Ranger's advice, at least when it involved a life- threatening situation. This hardly qualified, and my usual stubborn nature was alcohol fortified. "Thanks for the advice," I smiled up at him. "but I really don't need it." When I tried to push my door open, however, Ranger stood his ground and held it shut, leaning further down on his muscled forearms. The muscles barely twitched, but there was no way I could get out.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing?" I demanded, tossing my hair back and showing some cleavage in the hope- somewhat vain, probably, but you never know- that I could distract him enough to get him out of my way. If I was curious before about what was going on here, I was now on the road to obsessed. A sure way to get me interested in something was to warn me away, which Ranger well knew. What on earth happened that he didn't want me here?  
  
Ranger merely continued to lean. "I don't think you should get out of the car."  
  
This was very un-Ranger like. I didn't truly expect a cleavage flash to distract him, but I thought I would at least get a comment- or a quick look. Ranger did none of these things. In the same flat voice, he repeated, "I don't think you should get out of the car."  
  
Now, I was truly irate. I wanted to know what was going on, I wanted to see my boyfriend (or whatever it was he is), and I wanted to do it right here and now. Glaring hotly at Ranger, I wondered why he was acting this way. "Did you get up on the wrong side of the Batcave today?"  
  
Usually, the mention of the Batcave would get a corner mouth twitch, which passed for mild amusement with Ranger. Today, it got nothing. When Ranger choose not to answer, I turned back into my seat and sat staring out the windshield. Ranger neither moved nor spoke. "Ranger, what's the deal? Let me out."  
  
Ranger shook his head. "I can't do that."  
  
I hit the steering wheel a couple of times in anger. "Why not? Morelli ask you to keep me away from the crime scene?"  
  
The line of Ranger's mouth tightened, and his jaw muscled twinged. "You don't want to get out of your car."  
  
I needed to get out of the car to see what was going on. I was getting a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, the same feeling you get before you hurl. And I most definitely didn't want to hurl in my car. I tried to climb over to the passenger side, but I couldn't get over there as quickly as I wanted to in my dress. As I reached for the door handle, another set of arms leaned down on the window and a face appeared.  
  
"Tank." I said in greeting. He dipped his head, and stood rock-steady. I turned back to Ranger, an angry retort on my lips, when he opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. He turned the keys I had left in the ignition on and began to pull out.  
  
Ranger only drove his own mysterious, expensive black cars. Ranger did not drive fifty year old Buicks for any reason. Ranger never told me what to do; he knew it was useless. Why was he acting this way? The about-to-hurl feeling grew, and greeted the cold chills up my spine feeling. I reached over and shut the car down, half-way out of the parking spot and into the street, snatching the keys and dropping them down the front of my dress. I was half-scared that wouldn't stop Ranger, and half-disappointed when it did. "What the hell is going on?"  
  
Ranger rubbed his face with his hands with a sense of resignation, as an old man would do. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" he asked, his voice tired.  
  
I prickled a little at the jab. "I am not difficult. I am very reasonable. If you give me a reasonable explanation for what's going on here, I will be happy to listen to you. Until then, screw you. And get out of my car."  
  
Ranger looked at me, his eyes darker than usual. "We need to go somewhere else to talk. This isn't a good place."  
  
My eyes narrowed, and I felt the bile rise up in my throat. "Why?" I asked, even though I began to have an inkling about just who had been rushed past me in that ambulance.  
  
Ranger cupped my face in his tanned, strong hand, tracing my jaw line with a callused thumb pad. His usually unreadable eyes held something in the realm of pity, sending my heart plummeting. "It's Joe."  
  
Oh, God. And the fact that Ranger had called him Joe rather than Morelli scared me even more. I quickly fished out the keys and handed them back. I was glad now that Ranger was driving, because my hands were shaking so badly that I would never have gotten the keys in the steering column, much less driven. 


	2. Ranger Delivers the News

I do not own any of these characters, although I would really like to meet up with Ranger in a dark room somewhere. I simply borrow and gently use them for my amusement.  
  
Chapter Two Ranger Delivers the News  
  
I was wrong. It wasn't Morelli rushed past me in that ambulance. Joe had never even made it into an ambulance. It was Terry Gilham, shot three times as she ran from the scene. Shot by Joe.  
  
But I didn't find that out for a couple of days. It took me that long to get past the mental mantra "Joe Morelli is dead."  
  
Ranger had steered the Buick clear of the scene quickly, passing the clustered cops and flashing lights. I hardly trusted my voice, but I managed to whisper "What's happened to Joe?"  
  
Ranger stepped out of his zone, looking at me instead of the road. His eyes were the give away; normally so...emotionless. There was warmth in them now, a hint of remorse, and- pity. A great deal of pity, and a bit of fear. He turned back to the road in silence, and I think that that was the moment I first knew. Shock swept over me, paralyzing. We weren't far from my apartment. As we turned into my parking lot, Ranger eased into a spot near the door. He put the Buick in idle and turned to face me.  
  
My paralysis was broken at his words. He took my face in his hands and frowned. I could tell he was measuring his words, and that he didn't want to be the one to tell me. "Steph, I don't know how to tell you. I wish I didn't have to tell you-"  
  
"Then don't tell me," I whispered desperately. I tried to pull away, but Ranger pulled me back with the intensity in his eyes. He leaned over me, lowering his face level to mine and leaning his forehead to mine, never losing eye contact.  
  
"Joe was shot tonight. He died before the ambulance arrived." He pulled me into an embrace, warm and supportive. "I'm sorry."  
  
It took a minute for the words to truly register. I shuddered and didn't even try to hide my tears from Ranger. I let them drop onto the black T- shirt and screamed into his firm shoulder, beating my hands uselessly against his broad chest. Ranger took all the abuse and never let me go, murmuring the entire time into my ear softly, "I'm sorry, Steph. I'm sorry," and rocking me gently back and forth.  
  
I have no idea how long we sat there, but it was dark and most of my neighbors' lights were out before I could stop calm down enough to just cry. The amount of snot he had allowed me to leave on his shoulder was a testament to his feelings for me. I guess I had always known that despite his cool, Batman exterior, Ranger had shown me in his own way that he cared. Abruzzi was just one of many hints. Sniffling, I pulled away, rubbing my eyes. Ranger let me go, but not far. His arm stayed draped over my shoulders, in a comforting, non-territorial, way.  
  
Ranger didn't seem like the type of guy who handled emotions well, but he seemed to know what to do for me. "Want me to go get you some Tastykakes?"  
  
I snuffled. I wasn't up to laughter, but that's not what Ranger was going for. He was actually trying to figure out what to do to help me. In all the trouble I had gotten into since meeting Ranger, this was the most emotional and damaging event by far. "I'm not hungry."  
  
Ranger's eyes flashed with worry. After all, I'm always ready for cake. Ranger reached into his pocket and pulled out a hanky, handing it to me after wiping some of my smeared mascara and eyeliner off my cheeks. If I wasn't so stunned and in pain, I would have wondered over Batman carrying some thing as old fashioned as a hanky. "Thank you," I mumbled, swiping at my nose in a futile attempt to remove snot.  
  
Ranger inclined his head. "No problem." He took my hand in his free one, rubbing the palm gently with his thumb. "Are you ready to go inside?"  
  
I considered his question. I didn't think I was ready, but I didn't want to keep him sitting here in the car forever. And I really needed to go to the bathroom. I nodded, sniffling again, and reached for the door handle. Ranger was out of the car in a second and opening my door for me, helping me out. The face of my immense grief had brought out the gentleman in Ranger. 


	3. Batman Can Cook

I do not own any of these characters, although I would really like to meet up with Ranger in a dark room somewhere. I simply borrow and gently use them for my amusement.  
  
Chapter Three Batman Can Cook  
  
To my immense relief, we met no one on the way up to my apartment. Ranger, my keys still in his hand from the ride, went into bodyguard mode. He removed his Glock from the waistband of his pants, pushed me to the side of the doorway, and slowly opened the door. After a quick search, more from habit than a real threat right now, Ranger re-appeared in the doorway and pulled me inside.  
  
He had only been gone a few minutes, but that was long enough for me to start to fall apart again. My heart pounded in my ears and the tears started flowing again. I was sure all this crying, especially over his rival (there really was no other way to say it), was making him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Ranger, I just can't seem to help myself..."  
  
"Babe." He just pulled me into another embrace until the tears slowed to a trickle and then stopped. "Don't apologize. You've going through a very traumatic event." He pulled my chin up so that I was looking him in the eye. "You're doing better than I thought you would be."  
  
Better than he thought I would be? I was a mess! The need for a reply was negated by the phone. The sudden sound made me jump, and the thought of who it could be made my stomach flip. I didn't think that I could talk to anyone right now.  
  
Ranger sensed my reluctance. "Don't answer it. Let the machine get it."  
  
"It could be my mother-"I started, before he cut me off.  
  
"All the more reason not to answer it."  
  
I sighed shakily. "Yeah, you're right." We let it ring, heard the machine pick it up in the kitchen, and didn't recognize the voice. I started in to listen more closely, but Ranger redirected me to the new, death cootie-less sofa and made me sit down.  
  
He pulled the afghan from the arm, unfolded it, and wrapped it around me. "Did you eat anything before you started drinking?" he asked.  
  
I shook my head. "Just some peanuts. But I'm not hungry."  
  
"Hungry or not, you need to eat something."  
  
Ranger was playing nurse maid? "There's some olives in the fridge." I hadn't been food shopping lately, and the bare larder was more bare than usual.  
  
"I meant, you need to eat some real food." He made his way into the kitchen, and I could hear cabinets being opened and closed and beer bottles on the refrigerator door rattled. There was some low muttering, and then Ranger reappeared in the door way. "You really need to learn something about cooking. There isn't even a can of soup out there."  
  
"Then I guess I don't have to eat." I drew the afghan closer around me and curled into a ball on the sofa. I hadn't felt like eating, anyway.  
  
Ranger made his soundless way across the room and knelt down by the sofa. "Tank is bringing over some groceries. He should be here in a half-hour or so. Why don't you rest until he gets here?" Ranger reached out and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my right ear.  
  
"Okay." I didn't move, nor did Ranger. I lay there, staring off into space and trying not to think of anything at all. It worked for a few minutes, until the events of the night started going through my head like a highlights reel. When it got back to the realization that Morelli was dead, the tears started again and a deep pain filled me.  
  
Morelli and I had been dancing in overlapping circles for years, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, sometimes on the same path. We had never really talked a great deal about our feelings for each other, letting actions- and arguments- show the emotions. Talking about feelings just wasn't part of the relationship mix. That didn't mean that they weren't there, and that we hadn't cared about each other. Joe wouldn't have been such a pain in the ass about me being a bounty hunter if her hadn't loved me and worried about me. He had told me, in strained times, when we were at a distance, that he loved me.  
  
Now he was gone, and the fact that he loved me only made it worse. I, too, had loved him. There were times when I had told him so, but not anytime recently. No matter the state of our relationship, the love was always there. If we had been more mature, less stubborn, less Burg, maybe we would have been able to make that enough to overcome the differences.  
  
Now we would never know, and I was left with regret and what might have been.  
  
That, I think, was the worst part. I would never know what life with him would have been like, if we had gotten married, if we had had children, what it would have been like to grow old with him. I hadn't just lost Joe- I had also lost a part of myself, and a future that I had wanted more than I realized at the time.  
  
The speed and clarity of my mind amazed me. I had come to this epiphany about my relationship with Joe just before there was a knock on the door.  
  
Ranger pulled his gun and went to look out the peep-hole; he never felt safe with the security in my apartment. One glance, and the gun was holstered and he had the door open. Tank towered in the door frame, two brown grocery bags gripped in one arm. He barely glanced at me beyond a sympathetic nod. Ranger took the bags wordlessly, along with a leather duffle bag, and shut the door on Tank's retreating back. He left the duffle beside the door, and headed into the kitchen with the other bags.  
  
I couldn't even dredge up the energy to see what food Tank had brought. I wasn't even curious about the leather duffle bag. I continued to lay on the sofa, letting the comforting sounds of food being put away and prepared wash over me. It was entirely alien to my apartment, yet amazingly comforting. Ten minutes later, and Ranger came out of my kitchen with a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. He put them on the coffee table in front of me. "Eat."  
  
"Wow. You cook?" Grilled cheese was a gourmet meal with my cooking skills.  
  
Ranger shook his head, a slight upturn on his mouth indicating that he thought this was humorous. "This is not cooking. This is heating up. But yes, Batman can cook." There was a sense of slight humor in his voice when he referred to himself as Batman.  
  
"As honored as I am to have a superhero for a cook," I regretfully shook my head, "I'm just not hungry."  
  
It was Ranger's turn to shake his head. He crossed his arms and stood over me warily. "Don't argue. Just eat it. Trust me."  
  
I was in no shape to try to out-stubborn him, so I shifted my position and reached for the sandwich plate. The bread was perfect, crunchy yet greasy, and the cheese had melted all the way through. Under other circumstances, I would have been very complimentary. At present, I just grunted and said "Good." Once the sandwich was gone, I spooned my way through the soup and then sat there, staring at the wall.  
  
I guess Ranger found the silence, which hadn't bothered me, uncomfortable, because he cleared his throat and spoke. "I don't think that you should be alone tonight. Is there someone you want me to call to come over? Mary Lou? Your mom?" He grimaced slightly when adding, "Your grandmother?"  
  
I thought about it for a minute. "No, I don't want to talk to anyone right now. Talking to them will only make me feel worse."  
  
"Is there something else that I can do for you, then?" Ranger's eyes held an unaccustomed brightness.  
  
I felt funny asking, but for some reason laconic Ranger was the perfect person to have around me this first night of grief. I knew he wouldn't pressure me to talk, and he wouldn't fill the silence with platitudes trying to make me feel better. But I thought that he might feel a little funny being around me in this Morelli-induced state. I didn't know for sure what he was feeling, but even in my despair I had some regard for him. "Are you doing anything tonight, Ranger?"  
  
Ranger scrutinized my face, as if to see if he could fathom what was going on under all that tall hair and bravado. "Nothing that can't wait, Babe, if you want it to. But think about this before you ask me."  
  
His response made me a bit cranky. "I'm not asking you to sleep with me, for Christ's sake!"  
  
Ranger stiffened. "I never thought you were. I simply think you ought to consider the Burg gossips when you ask. What will Grandma Bella say if she finds out that I spent the night in your apartment before her grandson was even cold?"  
  
His phrasing was harsh, and drove his point home. But quite frankly, I didn't care. I had loved, Morelli, Morelli had loved me, and Morelli was dead. I didn't want to be alone, and I didn't want to be with my family. I just needed to be around someone who would respect my feelings and understand without asking. "She'll be glad that you watched over me, so that I didn't do anything stupid in my state, like try to eat my own cooking. If it will make you feel better, I'll call my mother and let her know."  
  
"She'll assume the worst as well." Ranger flexed his arms and rolled his shoulders. "I want to help you, not hurt you. It's your call."  
  
"Than it's settled. I need to make some phone calls, but you'll stay here tonight?" My voice went up a notch or two, showing the emotional strain I was under. "I don't want to be alone. I'll just keep thinking about Joe being-"my breath caught in my throat in an odd hiccup- "dead."  
  
Ranger nodded. "I'm here for you, Babe." Then he went to get me the phone. 


End file.
